


Red Horse, Blue Dragon

by SadakoTetsuwan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Not Happy, Old Married Couple, Old McHanzo, Regret, Seppuku, Ugly sobbing for all, Yeah you read that right, feeeeeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: Decades ago, Hanzo Shimada's honor demanded he make a promise.Now, he is having trouble keeping it. (Challenge Fic prompt: One Must Die)





	

The rocking chair creaked like his bones as the runners rolled back against the porch. McCree’s joints ached, except for his ever-youthful left arm; a storm must be brewing west, out behind the house. He didn’t feel much like getting up to check, though. His body knew well enough.

No, there was something far more interesting on this side of the house, passing the gate.

A lone figure, walking tall and proud. Even at his age, McCree’s eyes were as sharp as ever—he could see plainly who it was. Hanzo. He hadn’t seen him in a dog’s age. His hair and beard had faded to a pale gray, giving him a sagely air to match his always dignified manner. McCree’s own hair had simply turned a dark steely gray, to match the towering thunderhead behind him.

“Now if’n you ain’t a sight for sore eyes,” he croaked, his voice carrying the weight of decades of cigars and bourbon.

“It has been far too long,” the other man agreed, mounting the few steps onto the porch with great poise. What a typical Shimada understatement—fifteen years apart from one’s husband was more than just ‘far too long’.

“How’s Kotaro?”

“He is doing well. How is Cyrus?”

“Heh…too much like his Daddy.”

“And the grandchildren?”

“Beautiful, each an’ every one of ‘em.” His eyes slid closed, a soft sigh leaving him. His heart ached at their mention—perhaps it was the strain of age, but he was certain it was the thought of those three shining faces, giggling and tugging on his arm to join their games.

“…I know why y’ came,” he continued after a moment, “Ain’t sure I’m really in fightin’ form these days…”

“I understand. But I swore an oath—the passage of years does not make that oath disappear like dew in the morning.”

“…Please, the grandkids will come home from school soon…I don’t want ‘em t’ see,” he said, his voice growing soft. “We’re both men of our word, ‘n you can have what I owe ya, but…please, I don’t want ‘em t’ see.”

“Of course. After all you have given me in this life…” he trailed off quietly. A cool breeze from the west kicked up a bit of red dust. “I have come to give you a good death. An honorable death—one worthy of a Shimada.”

“Thank y’ kindly,” he rasped, a thin smile on his chapped lips. “I think I know where I wanna go.”

* * *

 

It had been some time since Hanzo had been in a saddle. Something about it appealed to his traditional sensibilities, and seeing Jesse in his natural habitat was inspiring, in a way. He’d always joked that there was room in this world for anachronisms. Seeing the old cowboy climb into the saddle, watching the aches in his bones melt away, the way his scruffy gray beard twitched with a smile as he clicked his tongue and gently eased his horse into motion was like seeing the sun rise from the peak of Mt. Fuji. It so embodied this land…

Hanzo grew more and more ashamed of what he had to do.

The high plains was possibly the flattest place Hanzo had ever seen, a vast ocean of sweet spring grass complete with waves. They passed the livestock pens, the hay fields, the small herd of buffalo on a distant hillock as the thunderhead grew to towering heights and the muggy air bore a threatening cool breeze, McCree happily chatting the whole way.

Some things never changed.

“The hands’ll be bringin’ the herd back ‘round soon,” McCree remarked, surveying the quickly approaching storm, “Gotta keep the calves safe ‘case there’s a stampede.”

“We will be finished before the storm comes,” Hanzo said, his voice heavy. McCree pulled back on the reins as they neared a familiar group of flat rocks.

McCree had so many memories here. He’d camped under the stars here dozens—maybe hundreds of times. He’d learned songs and frontier stories from his Papa here, he’d learned medicine and received his new name from Diyi Castillo here, he’d nursed injured calves back to health here. He’d spent his first night back on the ranch here because nothing had been rebuilt yet, he’d made love here, he’d seen both of his sons blessed here and begun the cycle all over again, just as it had restarted with his father, and his father before him…

It only seemed right to die here. A smile tugged at his lips—yes, this was the perfect place to go out.

Hanzo’s gaze fell, and he shook his head. “Not here...please not here, Jesse,” he whispered, his protest swallowed by the breeze and the creak of leather. There were too many memories of his own here—memories of campfires and harmonicas and passionate kisses, the thought that he could become accustomed to life like this...the memories of all that he had abandoned in pursuit of a stupid dream. He couldn’t just be happy that Jesse had reclaimed his family’s legacy, he had to be ‘inspired’ to do the same. First, he’d left the Shimadas, and then he’d left the McCrees. His honor was but a hollow shell...

“If’n I don’t get to die standin’ up, the least y’ can give me is lettin’ me pick where I meet Death,” McCree replied, dismounting from his horse and groaning as his feet met the ground, his spurs jingling merrily in spite of everything. “I must say, Hanzo…I was hopin’ this day would never come. Cheated death all my life…” McCree said, sighing softly. “Won’t ask why today was the day, why this was the perfect moment…”

Hanzo slid from his saddle as well, the swords he had brought shifting slightly in their scabbards. He couldn’t say it…could he?

It wasn’t the perfect moment. He’d had dozens of perfect moments over the years to fulfill his oath and kill Jesse McCree—moments he knew were perfect when they arose, and yet...he stayed his hand. ‘The wind is too strong’, ‘it’s not a fair fight’, ‘the stars are not in position’, he’d always told himself. ‘Next time will be _more_ perfect,’ he’d thought. ‘Next time’, ‘next time’, ‘next time’… Once, he realized that he hadn’t searched for the perfect moment in months. Then he realized he hadn’t searched for that moment in _years_.

But he was out of time. He could delay no longer; in spite of McCree’s dirty, unhealthy habits and hard life, Death was coming for Hanzo first. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but he paused. Jesse’s smile was so peaceful—he looked like a man who had been preparing himself for this moment for years. Hanzo stepped forward, his lips pursed and his eyes filled with sadness. He couldn’t tell him he was dying—he couldn’t take this peace from McCree.

“Jesse…” he murmured, “...I’m sorry.” His gaze fell and he stepped closer yet again, his arms moving around McCree’s waist and leaning into his sturdy frame.

McCree smiled, giving him a gentle squeeze. He’d missed this terribly...it had been so long since he’d held Hanzo. The years sequestered in Shimada Castle didn’t seem to have done him any favors; he felt thinner and there was exhaustion in his voice.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he murmured, his cheek resting against Hanzo’s ash-grey hair. “We had a good run, didn’t we?” McCree smiled, holding him close and sighing. “Two handsome sons, the ranch goin’ strong...fifteen years together. Not bad ‘tall,” he smiled. Fifteen years together...and then fifteen years apart. It was like some strange curse he’d had to live with all his life. Years of joy, years of sorrow.

And now, it was about to end.

At least it would end with them reunited. It would end with joy. The circle was complete.

“This calls for celebration,” McCree rasped, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing not a flask, like Hanzo had assumed, but a small leather pouch. He gently worked it open with nimble metal fingers, reaching in and sprinkling golden pollen, light as air, over Hanzo’s forehead.

“What is this?” Hanzo asked, his brow wrinkling as Jesse brushed the pale dust across his own forehead.

“A blessing,” McCree replied, tugging the drawstring shut again.

“You are not religious,” Hanzo stated—unless that had changed in his old age…?

“Heh, I know,” McCree smiled, tucking the pouch away. “Jes’ another tradition I’m tryin’a keep alive. Speakin’a which,” he continued, “When y’ get back t’ the ranch, tell Andrew where t’ find me, he’ll handle the burial and such… And tell Joe Castillo that I’m gone—he’ll take care of lettin’ the elders know,” he said. “Apaches got our own traditions fer the dead, and we’ll need a real medicine man to take care of it.”

Hanzo hesitated, his gaze falling. This promise was so easy to make when he hated Jesse McCree… A cool metal hand brushed Hanzo’s cheek, tipping his face back up, forcing him to gaze into that Buddha-like calm.

“I’m ready, darlin’...it’s alright,” McCree smiled, leaning down and kissing him gently. He’d been ready to die for a long time—he just hadn’t been willing until now. “I’m jes’ so glad I got to hold you one last time,” he smiled.

Hanzo couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. The peace and love and joy in his expression was too much. He drew the wakizashi from its scabbard, holding it out to Jesse while staring intently at his well-worn cowboy boots. McCree eased to his knees, groaning softly as his aching joints protested, but he settled with surprising grace. Hanzo had always been surprised at how well Jesse could sit seiza—but as he watched McCree settle onto his knees, his spurs angled out and away from any uncomfortable positions, it all made sense. He’d never asked him about it—how many other little secrets did Jesse have? How much was about to be lost, all for a stupid oath sworn in anger?

Hanzo turned away as he readied his sword, the chill breeze attacking his knuckles. His gaze rose to the dark skies, his brow furrowing at the sickly green tinge overhead. He’d learned what that meant very early on, and he hadn’t believed it until he saw the green sky for himself the first spring on the ranch. Tornadoes.

‘It’s not the perfect moment!’ he cried in his mind, ‘There is a damned tornado coming! Surely, he can be spared for one more day…! Surely, he can live!’

“It’s time,” McCree said, smiling as he gazed out over the ranch, the grass billowing in the wind, the towering black thunderhead. It was true, McCree had never been a religious man—or even ‘spiritual’, properly speaking. He believed in justice, in making your own fortune, in Death. But in the face of the storm, he recalled Diyi’s words. ‘The tornado seeks out what is lost and brings it back where it belongs. It's a powerful spirit with a mission. If you don't wander too far from your path, Red Horse, you have nothing to fear.’

“Jesse…!” Hanzo said, his gaze shifting from the dark funnel elegantly, sinuously, hypnotically pouring itself onto the ground to Jesse, his relaxed shoulders, his long gray hair braided back, his bright stupid smile that hadn’t changed since the first time he saw him, always glowing—how could he still be smiling? How could he be calm with a sword at his back and a tornado before him?

“It’s okay,” McCree replied, his voice gentle as he unbuttoned his shirt, shivering slightly at the crisp breeze, “It brought you back to me…”

“What?”

“I’m ready,” he said, carefully positioning the wakizashi. “I’ll see you again real soon, darlin’…”

“Jesse, we—” Hanzo began, the words sticking in his throat. ‘We have to leave, now’…‘We don’t have to do this’…‘We didn’t have enough time’… He shook his head, clenching his fists around his sword. “I love you, you stupid cowboy!” McCree chuckled softly, the sound floating above the distant howl of the gale.

“Love you like springtime, baby,” Jesse replied, his eyes sliding shut as he drew a final breath—sweet spring grass, the warm earthy scent of the horses, rich petrichor, the cigar in his breast pocket, the silk and sandalwood that had filled his dreams for years.

The strength had never left his metal arm, even as the years had worn down the rest of him, and the blade was sharp. Neither fact stopped the pain as he willed his arm onward, pushing the blade through unyielding flesh. It wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever endured, though, not by a long shot. No…no, the worst pain was the first time Hanzo let the perfect opportunity pass. The worst pain was the day Hanzo said he wasn’t coming back home. But the worst pain was long behind him.

This…this was pain to celebrate.

The pain sharpened his hearing, the wind howling in his ears mixed with the sound of a warrior’s cry behind him, and then—


End file.
